Page 50 of The Return of the Heir

Gwendolyn dressed carefully for supper in another of Rowena’s borrowed dresses. She’d chosen a simple silk gown in a beautiful shade of sapphire blue with only one petticoat beneath. She’d gathered her hair into a bun at her nape and had threaded a strand of freshwater pearls, which Rowena had also lent her, into the mass. Finally, she slipped her feet into a new pair of shoes Mrs Morgan had brought to her, saying Alastair had had them made specifically for her.

After a quick appraisal in her handheld looking glass, Gwendolyn had deemed her appearance plain and practical and was completely oblivious to the way her dress reflected the colour of her eyes, or how the simplicity only accentuated her natural beauty. Without anything further to delay her, she made her way to the great hall and the feast Mrs Honey had devised to celebrate their guests.

The sound of laughter and the clinking of glasses came to Gwendolyn as she approached the doorway. For a moment, she stopped, hanging back as her nerves suddenly faltered. It had been a very long time since she’d had to converse in such a situation. She knew nothing witty or clever to say, and she had no knowledge of any of the politics of the day or any social conventions. She was about to turn around and head back to her chamber when Laird MacAskill and his wife came up behind her.

“Come, lassie,” Laird MacAskill said, “all the festivities are inside the doorway. Not out here.” He and his wife did not step around her, instead waiting until she entered the chamber before they joined her.

The room was full of glittering candlelight and splashes of brightly hued tartan. At her appearance, it seemed as though all the conversation in the chamber ground to a halt, and all eyes turned to the doorway. Gwendolyn felt a blush heat her cheeks. Ignoring their stares, she crossed the room to the huge hearth where Rowena, a man she recognised as Laird MacKinnon, and a woman who must have been his wife stood, their heads bent in conversation.

At Gwendolyn’s approach, Rowena turned to greet her. “You look splendid.” She offered Gwendolyn her arm and pulled her close to her side. Leaning in so that no one else could hear, she said, “I knew that dress would look better on you than it did me. You look quite enchanting tonight.”

“Miss Harris,” Laird MacKinnon said. “I was quite moved today by all you have suffered at the hands of the MacDonalds.”

“Thank you, m’laird. The MacDonalds are not only a continuing threat to the MacLeods, but to all the clans who oppose them.”

“Aye,” he agreed as he took a sip of the whisky in his hand, then launched into a discussion about how the water on Skye made the whisky produced there finer than all the other whisky in Scotland.

Gwendolyn paid little attention as she caught sight of Alastair across the chamber. He stood with Laird Nicolson and his wife. Trying to cast her gaze elsewhere, Gwendolyn looked around the entire chamber until, compelled by a force she couldn’t control, her gaze returned to Alastair once more.

He wore a richly shaded coat that was such a dark colour of blue it was almost black. The sleeves were turned back, almost to the elbow and trimmed with gold braid. The coat was left open, revealing a gold damask waistcoat beneath, buttoned high to the throat. Over this he wore a white, multitiered lace jabot that matched the lace at his shirtsleeves. Beneath the waistcoat he wore a pleated and belted blue and green tartan with accents of red, gold, and black. The end of the tartan was brought up and draped across one shoulder and fastened to his coat with a large silver brooch studded with four small sapphires and a large sapphire at the center. His face had been shaved clean and his ebony hair had been neatly barbered, but his natural curl refused to be tamed and yet curled at his temples and nape.

He looked magnificent. She had thought she appraised him unknowingly, until suddenly his gaze was upon her, sending her nerves skittering. An appreciative smile pulled up the corner of his mouth as his gaze moved over her like a lover’s caress.

Gwendolyn welcomed the unfamiliar sensation that warmed her core. For so many years she’d felt only partially alive—Survival had been her one and only goal. Yet, tonight, she could feel her pulse thrumming as Alastair’s heated gaze slid long and lingeringly over her body, over the blue silk that clung to her form.

Without breaking his gaze, he made his way across the room. The beat of her heart punctuated his steps until he stood before her. “Good evening, Gwendolyn.” His voice was silken soft.

Rowena and the others, sensing he wished to speak to her alone, moved away, until it was just the two of them standing before the roaring fire. The pop and hiss of the wood as it was devoured by the flame receded as he stared down at her. “You were magnificent today in the council meeting.”

“I only told the truth.”

“You convinced the lairds to censure the MacDonalds. On the morrow we will discuss penalties against the clan for imprisoning you and your siblings. I’m almost certain there will be a financial settlement. You will not have to work as a governess in order to support yourself and your family.”

The news should have made her happy. Instead, she shivered as a chill slithered down her spine and she looked away.

“That is what you still desire, is it not? Your freedom?”

Her throat tightened. She wanted to say nay, but found the word caught in her throat. Instead of offering a reply, she lifted her skirts and raced out the door, down the hallway, and to a private nook she’d discovered in her early days at the castle. She was running away when she should stay and fight. Beatrice was still here at Dunvegan and she and Alastair were still engaged. Could she fight the conniving woman and win the battle between them?

Gwendolyn leaned against the wall for support, as she tried to dredge up that fighting spirit from earlier today. Her plan had been to retrieve the flag, offer it in reconciliation to Alastair, and to tell him she wanted to start fresh. Instead of moving straight to marriage, she had wanted time for the two of them to get to know each other again.

It was a great plan except for the part where Alastair would marry Beatrice in three more days. She clenched her fists, trying to hold back her frustration.

“Why did you run away again?” All of a sudden, Alastair stood before her.

She startled and pitched forward straight into his arms. Her breath caught in her throat as she landed flush against his body. “I had to.”

“Are you running from yourself or me?”

“Both.” Her hands gripped his arms as she braced herself to pull away when his arms encircled her waist, locking her against his hardness.

“’Tis time to stop running, Gwendolyn.” In his dark eyes she saw not anger, but desire. Before she could reply, his lips descended on hers.

He kissed her, not gently as he had the night before, but with a passion that spoke of longing. His kiss said what his words did not—that he still cared for her.

She found herself reeling, sinking into her own primitive response. Too urgent to be denied, too powerful to resist. She plunged into the temptation of his hot, demanding mouth, into the whirling vortex of desire that beat in her veins. Free of all restraints, she gave herself over to the passion of the moment, feeling the beat of his heart against her chest, the warmth of his touch as it caressed her back and neck, until he plunged his hand into her hair, freeing the length and sending the strand of pearls falling to their feet.

Through the sensual storm hazing her brain, the sound of bagpipes registered, reminding her they were not alone. No matter how much her body wanted this moment, it was the wrong time and the wrong place. Yet, she couldn’t seem to pull away.